Until It's Gone
by Wholocklolly
Summary: Sherlock has never truly recognised Molly's value in his life until he fears for the worst. - Based on a prompt given to me by the lovely, lovely Chandler.


Based on a prompt given to me by the lovely Chandler (no really guys. She's gorgeous. *nudge*)

Bit gory and semi-smutty.

Enjoy!

* * *

Sherlock had been going marginally insane, his brain slowly stewing without provision of a case for nearly a month. It seemed the Yard _thought _they could handle things without his assistance after the elaborate scandal following his 'death'.

It had been nearly three months since he had revealed himself to the world and two months since he and Molly had officially entered a formal relationship. She had been the only thing keeping him from tipping over the chasm of boredom, and he truly was thankful for that. But after her work suspension and the investigation was over, she could no longer look after him during the day.

Finally, one afternoon while Sherlock was scoping out a particularly promising case that he was thinking perhaps he might go have a look at on his own, he received a call from Lestrade. Delighted, but of course playing coy on the phone with the Detective Inspector, Sherlock sprung into his clothes and was out the door rather quickly.

Shortly thereafter, he arrived at the address of the crime scene and paid the cabbie, climbing from the cab and sweeping onto the scene. As expected, there was a line of people straining towards the taped off portion of the pavement, a tent up around where the body was, trying to catch a glimpse of the deceased.

Ducking under the tape and into the tent, Sherlock approached Lestrade, not yet catching sight of the corpse as Lestrade apologised profusely to him. Ignoring him for the time being, Sherlock walked towards the woman, a splay of brown hair like a halo around her head. He felt his stomach drop, his mouth going completely dry.

What was left of the women's facial structure was eerily similar to that of Molly's, her cheekbones high and dainty. There was nothing covering her pale, dirtied limbs, save for a lab coat that was draped over her. But the real attention catcher, the cause for a tent posted up around the body, was the state of the women's face. Where her nose, eyes, brows and chin should have been was shredded skin.

Sherlock took off in a sprint in the other direction, not even bothering to catch a cab. Molly lived close by the address anyways. He ran madly, disregarding everything, traffic and fellow pedestrians included, his mind solely focused on the safety of his girlfriend.

Bursting through her front door, Sherlock cried her name, frantically spinning around the flat in search for her.

Molly emerged from the bathroom, her damp body wrapped in a towel, a curious wrinkle between her brows, and Sherlock could have cried in relief. He quickly shook off his coat and collected her in his arms, causing her to squeak in protest.

"Sherlock! What's wrong with you?" Molly laughed as he spun her around, and she clutched her towel to her chest so it wouldn't fall off. Sherlock set her on her feet, kissing her deeply, greedily.

"Please don't ask. Just let me…" he trailed off and pushed away her hands so her towel fell away.

Molly examined his expression, lifting her arms slightly to accommodate his greedy touches. She had her own deductive tricks up her sleeve when it came to Sherlock, and she figured out in a moment that this case must have affected him greatly.

She assisted in divesting Sherlock of his clothes, and he suddenly lifted her and brought her to her bedroom, laying her down and crawling over her. He covered every inch of his body with hers, laying kisses over every expanse of skin his lips touched, his hands never lifting from her.

The mood changed to something less loving, surging into needy groans and bites, laying claim to each other. His Molly. Her Sherlock.

Sherlock's hands slid to grip her thighs as he swiftly entered her, his body continually colliding with hers, her lips dancing along his collarbone, occasionally nipping, whispering nothing but everything.

He truly loved her and could never stand to lose her, and what had occurred earlier had burned him, when he had thought for a moment that the body was Molly's. Frail and shredded and limp. His Molly.

He pressed himself tighter against her, savouring the feel of her skin, the smell of her hair, the hotness of her breath against his and the hot taste of her tongue until he could no longer hold on. Sherlock let go, spilling into her, releasing himself, yes still lathering himself in her scent by burying his face in her neck. He would never let her go again.


End file.
